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Destiel Christmas Present: 20

This piece is brought to you by the fabulous geniekeckers, as part two of Wish Upon A Star (day three, piece one). Click the Read More to find out what she's given you!

“I’ve never prayed before.”

Dean shifted a little. He was on his knees on his bed, like he had seen in the painting in church, the children like him all in rows. He thought they looked a bit silly, really, with the white frilly dresses and the clasped hands, but he thought he might give it a shot. He bit his lip as he heard sniffles through his wall and with all the determination an actually 4 year old could muster – which was much more than a 3 year old, even more than a nearly 4 year old – continued.

“I know it’s not – not Christmas anymore, an’ I should be praying to Jesus, or Santa, an’ you might have star or angel duties –” he giggled a little at the word ‘duties’, a hand now over his mouth to muffle them, but at the small cries from the other room he clasped his hands back together. “But… Mister Star, or Angel, or… I really need your help. Daddy’s gone on a fishing trip, an’ he hasn’t been home for days, and mommy – mommy and daddy had another argu-argu-fight on the phone today, an’ –” Dean felt himself want to cry as well, cry into his pillow until he was woken by the sun and Sammy crying again, to the smell of bacon and daddy twirling mommy around the kitchen, but he was actually 4 now. Nearly 4 year olds shouldn’t cry like Sammy, never mind actually 4 year olds.

He glanced at his wall. The crying had still not stopped.

“An’ I really miss him. So does mommy, an’ so does Sammy. An’ I know I haven’t – haven’t spoken to you since Christmas, an’ I didn’t thank you for my presents an’ I didn’t get to meet Santa either cause I fell asleep, but…” Why would his star help him anyway? His star could help anyone, boys whose daddies didn’t run away from them…

Do it for your little brother.

Daddy had run away from Sammy, as well, and he needed him more than Dean did. So he pressed on.

“How would you feel if your daddy left you? I mean, I dunno, you might not have a daddy, but I do, an’ mommy is sadder now… just, please, Mister Star. I just want daddy back.”

Through his watery eyes, the angel on the shelf he was kneeling towards made no movement. Sitting back on his feet, he shuffled back in his bed until his back hit the wall and he could draw his knees up into his chest, hugging them tightly.

Only when he heard the sobbing sounds cease off did he curl back under the covers, hoping daddy would come home soon so there wouldn’t be any more nights in which mommy would cry herself to sleep.

He woke to the sun and Sammy crying again, to the smell of bacon and daddy twirling mommy around the kitchen.

He fell asleep to thoughts of Sammy being old enough to kick a ball around and daddy ruffling his hair as he tucked him into bed.

He woke to the screams and Sammy crying again, to the smell of fire and daddy telling him to run.

He knew the angel on his shelf would have been burnt in the fire, and, as he clutched his little brother in his arms, wondered if this meant his star wasn’t watching over him anymore. Whether his star had ever watched over him, listened to his prayer. And, as he looked down at Sammy, whimpering from the sudden movement, the sudden heat and light, wondered whether it was time for him to turn nearly 5.

“Mister Star?”

The streetlight outside the motel room crackled and sparked for a few seconds further, before failing, the room and its additions disappearing into the dark along with the light. Dean wasn’t concentrating on those, though, instead keeping closely curled up to his baby brother in their bed.

“It – it’s Christmas, Mister Star. A year since you dropped into my garden. Although I suppose it isn’t really my garden anymore… I got a football, a baseball an’ glove, an’ we got a tree an’ all, but… it’s not the same, Mister Star. The tree’s smaller than me, an’ it doesn’t even have a star or an angel…”

Dean hadn’t spoken to his star since that first prayer. He hadn’t prayed at all, actually: refusing to speak, to listen to the various pastors and other church leaders who attempted to comfort him with words of God’s plan, God’s love, because Dean knew that his mom had had plans to take him to the circus when he turned 4, and that how could God love him, if he had taken away what he had loved the most.

Sammy fidgeted in his sleep, a distressed look on his face and a cry hovering between his lips, and Dean reached out to stroke his head back into calm. A lot of things had changed since his mom died.

“I didn’t ask for anything for Christmas this year. I asked for Sammy, though, for more toys cause his all got burnt in the fire. See, he still can’t speak, so I have to do it for him. I have to do lots of things for him now.”

Sammy’s gentle breaths were in time with the rough rumbles from the next bed, their dad splayed across the whole thing, but he had been blurred into the background along with everything else outside the bed. His hand was still running across the soft down of his little brother’s head, bringing more comfort to Dean than him as he blinked back a few tears.

“You see, Mister Star, the reason I didn’t ask for anything for Christmas was cause the only thing I want is gone…” a tear slid down his cheek, the first time since that night, first time he had let himself cry because he had not known how. He would have once reasoned that it was because he was only nearly 5, and would perhaps know how when he became actually 5, but now he was just too hollow to even begin to reason with himself. “And I got Sammy, an’ he’s the best Christmas present I could ever ask for, but… just, please, Mister Star. I just want mommy back.”

As tears continued dripping down his cheeks, as the streetlight fizzled back to life, and as drunken yells floated in from those arriving back from Christmas cheers at bars, a sense of serenity that Dean linked with dozing off for an afternoon nap to the soothing scent of his mom cooking pie came over him, and he finally felt that he could sleep.

“Bobby, what’s the lore on shooting stars?”

Bobby looked from the saucepan of whatever sauce or stew he was cooking this time to the 8 year old Dean cross-legged in his living room, holding one of the many thick, old books his house was brimming with. “Shooting stars?”

“Yeah. Y’know, the things that fly through space.”

Bobby chuckled. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about, boy. S’that what you’re looking for?”

“Yeah, but… your books are kinda heavy, and most are in weird languages.”

“I’ll find one, don’t you worry. Why d’you wanna read up about them, anyway?”

Dean shrugged. “Just curious.”

Bobby gave him an equally curious look but just said, “Why don’t you go check up on your brother and I’ll find something for you.”

Dean scrambled to his feet and went to the next room, where Sammy had been put with his toys, from the old wooden ones with peeling paint from Bobby’s own childhood to the cheap plastic from thrift stores and newer ones given on birthdays and Christmases by their dad and Bobby. He seemed perfectly happy with the peg toy box, as was Dean when he came back to a book, less chunky and a lot less ancient than the one he’d had balanced on his lap earlier, in Bobby’s hands.

“Got you one, got loads of myths and lore on the planetary systems, including stars. In English, as well.”

“Awesome,” said Dean, immediately taking it and huddling back down on the floor.

Bobby harrumphed. “Call me if you have any trouble reading the thing.”

There was little noise from Dean in the next half an hour or so, bar mutters of, “‘Heaven in pity is sending upon Earth tokens of impending doom’, well, he was cheerful,” and “‘said to foreshadow, including wars, famine, and death’, the Chinese were just as jolly,” and “‘blighted crops, plague, wars, insurrection, family feuds’ – wow, Manilus really was cheerful.”

The last one was soon followed up by, “Bobby, what’s insurrection?”

“Dictionary in there somewhere, kid, look it up.”

After a few moments of scrambling and small fingers running over the spines of books, and the hefty tug of an equally hefty book, and Bobby could hear Dean read out, “‘an act or instance of rising in revolt, rebellion, or resistance against civil authority or an established government.’ Thanks, Bobby.”

"You’re welcome,” he grunted, but Dean was already shoving the dictionary aside and continuing to flick through the pages of the book.

“‘In many traditions and cultures stars are thought to be the souls of either unborn souls, or those who had passed away. In some cultures a shooting star foretells a birth, and is said to be the soul racing to animate the newborn baby, while in other places the shooting star foretells a death, or a soul released from purgatory.” Dean tapped a finger underneath the paragraph. “But Sammy was born in May, that doesn’t make sense…”

“Your daddy got a case on them or something?”

“What? No, I – I’m just curious, that’s all, Bobby.” Dean closed the book with a sigh. “And I’ve read all I want, anyway. I’m gonna go play with Sammy.”

“Hm. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

Protecting family from the very start, and to the very end, was what got him landed in here. Landed in hell.

Do it for your little brother.

It felt like centuries – no, it felt like millennia had passed as he slashed into soul after soul, even if Alistair would remind him daily that you only lasted for 30 years, my dear pupil, surrounded by hundreds of stomachs hacked away and thousands of nails ripped from fingernails as if they were faint echoes and forgotten reminders of why he was here and of who he was doing this for –

– when he saw something glistening in the endless sea of black smoke.

Something glistening and moving.

He stepped back from the rack, knife swinging in his hand, as it blazed toward him, bathing him in a soft, warm, white glow that he knew to be nothing but hell fire – because, after forty years, what wasn’t?

It was only when it pressed its entire palm against his shoulder was he reminded of the serenity of mommy baking him a pie.

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one that gripped you tight and raised you from perdition.”

Just as you gripped me tight and raised me, but Castiel decided not to mention that.

“I can’t do it, Cas. It’s too big. Alastair was right. I’m not all here. I’m not strong enough. Well, I guess I’m not the man either of our dads wanted me to be. Find someone else. It’s not me.”

“Do it for your little brother.”

Dean turned his head to stare through his tears at Castiel, his soft words having laid forgotten, tossed aside, in a hell-fiery catacomb of his mind since the first time he turned to face a rack with a devilish knife in his hand and an even more devilish smile on his face.

He began to choke out, “How do you –”

But a look over the bed and a small nod to the man, Castiel was gone in a whisper of wings.

“On a good day, you get to kill a whore.”

Castiel gave him a small nod of agreement, mind too clouded and too painful and just too angry to appreciate the humour Dean was trying to comfort him with, rolling the bottle of aspirin between his palms. He barely acknowledged his boots crunching on the gravel floor, Dean moving to sit beside him, until he said, “Did you know it was gonna happen that way? From the beginning, I mean.”

Castiel lifted his head to stare at him, unable to process his vague question, to link it back to previous conversations through his headache. “Know what was going to happen what way?”

Dean swallowed. “My mom and dad. Y’know, with the fire and the childhood, the fate and destiny and all that crap.”

“We didn’t expect for your father to be quite as harsh as he was to you growing up, but I guess we underestimated the effect that Mary’s death would have on him and the power of his love for her.” Dean pursed his lips, crouched over a little in his seat, hands fists in his pockets. “You struggle to talk about him.”

He gave a small, forced laugh. “Yeah, well…” he rubbed his hand across his mouth, gazing over the parking lot, stubbornly refusing to make eye contact with Castiel. “Look, what I’m trying to say here is – Cupid said that the pairing of my mom and dad was a big deal upstairs, so I presume you knew from the start that they were both gonna end up dead by… let’s just say, unnatural causes, right?”

“Yes, yes we did.”

“…They didn’t deserve it. Neither of them did.”

“Neither do –”

“Yeah, I know, neither do I, apparently, and neither does Sammy, nor you, but what can you do.”

There was silence between them: that odd, companionable silence often only broken or disturbed by the rumble of the Impala, now by Castiel attempting to take several aspirin at once until Dean informed him that water helps, and he put it aside for later.

“You’re not wearing your amulet.”

Castiel’s eyes had drifted from watching the various restrained emotions cross Dean’s face, the clench of his jaw and the pursing of his lips, to his chest, where the amulet normally swung. Dean’s eye followed them there.

“Just as I said, deadbeat dads. No point in having a constant reminder, right?”

“Even with it being from Sam?”

Dean was staring down at his clasped hands now, as if wishing for a beer to also roll in his hands and drink. “He was the one who gave it to me. Christmas 1991. Best Christmas I’d had in a long time. Still crappy, but the best. Best one since you dropped out of the sky, in fact.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dude, I know it was you, don’t even try to deny it.”

“How did you know?”

“Do it for your little brother,” he echoed. “Bit of a giveaway, if you ask me. Even if you patched up my soul like you said, still a pretty secretive thing to know.”

Castiel smiled a little. “I don’t know what came upon me, I was ordered not to mention it.”

“Yeah, well, you were ordered to not doubt at all and to obey every command of those higher up than you in Heaven, look where that got you.” He waved a hand vaguely in his direction. “Besides, you were trying to motivate me or whatever. Didn’t work, just freaked me out, but still.”

“I’m not sure if that’s supposed to be a compliment or not.”

Dean snorted. “Neither do I. That was another clue, actually, or hint, or whatever.” When Castiel didn’t reply, only making a small expression of confusion at him, he said, “You disobeying the orders of Heaven.”

“Oh,” he replied, as if the addition was understood by him. “No, that still doesn’t make sense to me.”

“When I was 8, I read up on the lore of shooting stars; y’know, like most 8 year olds. Said it was a sign of shit going down, basically. Bad crops, plague, wars, insurrection, family feuds. Course, I passed that off when I was a kid, because what kind of friggin’ star would bring about that kinda crap?”

“And what does that have to with me?”

“‘Cause I was looking back over it, the other day, and started to link things in my head. The plague one’s obvious, that’s Pestilence, can’t be anything else. I mean, it could be Croatoan, but that hasn’t shown its nasty head in a while. Bad crops, the whole burger fest you went on. Wars, family feuds, do I even need to start?” Castiel ducked his head as Dean joked bitterly, counting off each sign on his fingers, continuing to roll the bottle between his palms.

“And then there’s insurrection, an act of – well, you know what it means.”

“So what you’re saying is –”

“‘Heaven in pity is sending upon Earth tokens of impending doom’,” Dean quoted. “Dude, I don’t know about the whole pity bit, but you got the rest of it down flat.”

“I certainly pity Earth if you have to go through this every time you drink,” said Castiel, continuing to nurse his aching head, and Dean chuckled.

“See, checked all the boxes of a shooting star, congrats.”

“I’m still not sure what you’re getting at here, Dean.”

“Yeah, well, neither am I. I’m not good with the deep stuff.” Dean had put his hands back in his pockets, still crouched over, but his eyes had softened, staying on Castiel whether he was looking back or not. “I kept it, y’know.”

“Kept what?”

“The Band-Aid you chucked on the ground. Hid it under a loose floorboard. For a while, at least. As long as I could.”

“What happened to it?”

Dean swallowed again. “Destroyed in the fire, I presume. Wasn’t much left to save after.”

“Dean –”

“Don’t even bother saying you’re sorry, Cas, it’s – well, it’s not fine, but, y’know. Damn demon, not angels, remember?”

“I was going to say thank you, actually.”

“Already did. As I said, don’t mention it. Been there enough times to know it hurts like – well, not like hell, but you know what I mean.” He glanced from the bottle to Castiel. “Evidently.”

“I was talking about that Christmas Eve. When you fixed me.”

“Just gonna get the same response, Cas; don’t mention it. Same situation, just… different cause. Besides, you paid me back, right? Gripping me and raising me or whatever.” He cleared his throat, clearly wishing to avert the direction of their conversation. “Why me, anyway? Why Christmas?”

“I was wounded in battle with demons who had escaped from Hell intent on aiding Azazel, and fell from Heaven. I searched for the purest soul, the soul mostly likely to help me, in the area over which I fell, and it happened to be you. It being Christmas was also just coincidental.”

“I was three, of course I was gonna help a frickin’ star that had just dropped out of the sky.”

“Actually, you were ‘nearly 4’.”

“Oh, shut up. Was that on purpose as well, though? Being a shooting star, the whole lore behind it and all?”

“I manifested my form so as to not scare you and so that it would not damage you to look upon me. A shooting star was the most convenient.”

“Yeah, well, actual shooting stars are meteors, but you did the five points, the sparkling, the gold, the whole shebang straight out of a kids Christmas cartoon. I mean, a star, Cas? Really?”

Castiel ducked his head. “As I said, I manifested my form so as –”

“Not gonna convince anyone but you here, Cas, no point in even trying. And you are blushing.”

“I am not blushing.”

“Yes, you so are.”

“I am –”

“Oh you so are.”

“Dean –”

“What?”

Castiel reached up to press a cold hand against his aching head. “…shut up.”

Dean chuckled. His posture had loosened now, not so restrained, leaning back in his seat with a light in his eyes that had gently brightened throughout their conversation. “Fine. C’mon, dude, let’s go get you some water for that head of yours.”

The next Christmas Dean had was in a house protected by a white picket fence, as flimsy and as fake as the false bravado on his face as he and Lisa picked whether to have an angel or a star on the top of their tree.

He hadn’t heard from Castiel in a long time, or any angel.

It just reconfirmed that they weren’t watching over him after all

He kept the nickel from 1967 he found in his shoe on Christmas Day under a loose floorboard in the office.

The next Christmas Dean had, Death had popped his soul from the box and re-souled the now-amnesiac Sam. Risky, but; what could he say?

He did it for his little brother.

No sign of Castiel during the holidays, but, if the Christmas decorations, mince pie-stocked fridge, and waking up on the 25th to hearing Bobby swearing non-stop about an immovable Santa hat in replacement of his usual trucker cap were any indications, he had stopped around.

A small, folded piece of paper bearing the words, “No one should have a crappy Christmas, Dean,” would be found by Bobby stored under a loose floorboard sometime in the next few months.

“Why Christmas? Why is it always fucking Christmas? First it was mom, then Ellen and Jo, now Cas and Bobby… why does everyone have to fucking die around Christmas?”

If Sam said his older brother was not drunk, he would be lying. In fact, if he described Dean as anything other than completely shitfaced, he would be bullshitting the whole hideout down. It made him wince to think of how much alcohol he must have taken to get that plastered as he cradled his second beer, half drunk, in his hands. Completely shitfaced and a complete wreck, he added, glancing again at him: had been for a long time.

“Christmas is meant to be about joy, but no, everyone – everyone fucking dies, and we are left alone, again, fucking again, to sort through the shit they left behind, ho-fucking-ho.”

Sam averted his eyes as Dean blinked furiously. He was broken by Bobby’s death, of course he was, but considering who his older brother had lost only a few months previously… well, he could relate, Sam thought, lifting his beer to his lips again.

“Y’know how long it’s been since I’ve had a good Christmas, Sammy?” He turned his head a little to watch Dean drop the whiskey bottle he was drinking straight out off on the table to clumsily count on his fingers. “Five years, by now. Five fucking years – no, not even that, closer to five fucking decades, if you count Hell in that.”

“What about last year?”

Dean snorted. “What, pacing around hoping you wouldn’t go psycho on us counts as a good Christmas? Even Cas wasn’t there… ” Dean gritted his teeth. “And now he isn’t here either, and I’m not ever getting him back. I mean – we’re never getting him back. Not him, nor Bobby, and just…” he trailed off with another gulp of whiskey.

“Look, man, I can relate, what with Jess and everything –”

“No, Cas is nothing like Jess, nothing. Jess was your girlfriend, Cas was… Cas was Cas, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed simply. “Fine.”

“Fine.”

“Good.” When Dean didn’t snap back, Sam continued with, “I’m going to bed; do me a favour and try not to drink yourself to death.”

“I’ll make no promises.”

“We’ll go through more of Bobby’s stuff in the morning, okay? He had loads of other hideouts, we can spend a couple of days driving, clear our heads, pass some time as we wait for Dick’s next move.” Dean grunted in acknowledgement as Sam moved in the bathroom to have a shower. “And, just remember,” he put his head back around the door into the room, “He died loving you and knowing that you loved him back, so… try not to hate yourself too much, all right?”

“Merry fucking Christmas, Sammy,” was the only reply he was given, and Sam resisted going to retrieve his beer and downing it and several others also, instead of the long hot shower he forced himself to have instead.

And as Dean collapsed into his bed from the alcohol and the familiar sound of the running water, he realized that Sam was definitely not talking about Bobby in that last sentence, and the little, long-forgotten sense of serenity that washed over him from it was not at all unwelcome.

“Christmas Day. Celebrated on December 25th, the birthday of Jesus Christ, supposedly.”

Dean groaned. “Oh, come on, you’re not dumping a whole load of nerd knowledge on me, are you? Dude, it’s Christmas. School’s out, remember?”

“Dean, shut up, I wanna hear this. Cas, continue.”

Dean made a face at Sam, but obliged, settled back into his motel bed. “The date actually came from Saturnalia an ancient Roman festival in honour of the deity Saturn, lasting from December 17th to December 23rd, marking the winter solstice: a period of rampant overeating, drunkenness, and sexual indulgence.”

“So… basically Dean’s average week, then?”

Cas gave no sign of hearing Sam, as Dean threw a cushion across the room in retaliation, bar a subtle smile. “Christian leaders in the 4th century succeeded in converting large numbers of pagans to Christianity by promising them they could still continue celebrating Saturnalia as Christians. As there was obviously nothing intrinsically holy about it, Christian leaders named Saturnalia’s concluding day, December 25th, to be Jesus’ birthday. Which it wasn’t, of course, he was actually born –”

“Dude, no, no, you’re ruining the magic of Christmas.” Dean sat up and scooted to the edge of the bed, leaned forward, and dragged over his duffel bag over as he continued to talk. “Besides, I have presents. Heads up.”

“Newspaper, Dean? Really?” Sam held up the neatly-if-oddly wrapped parcel, shaking his head, as Castiel turned his own over and over in his hand.

“Christmas paper is expensive, okay? And you’re meant to open it, Cas, not fondle it.”

“Christmas presents originated from –”

Another pillow flew across the room and Cas stepped smartly aside to avoid it, starting to hook his finger under the first seal. The pillow was soon followed by a shortly-airborne plastic box from Sam’s direction, bouncing off an unsuspecting Dean’s head.

“Hair accessories, Dean? Hair accessories?”

“Oh, come on, that’s funny, right? Right? Cas, back me up on this one.”

“It’s hilarious.”

“Okay, I regret ever teaching you sarcasm, that was a bad idea on my part.”

Castiel just smiled and carefully tucked the newspaper into his pocket, as Sam’s was scrunched into a ball and aimed again at Dean’s head. His box wasn’t the cheap clear plastic of Sam’s, it was around the same size but made of leather. The top came off easily, leaving behind a small bed of a soft blue material in the bottom half, in which rested a key with a gold star on it’s chain.

“Wait, is that a key the Impala?” Sam said incredulously as Castiel took it from the box and held it in the air to inspect it closer.

“Yeah. Thought he may as well have one, if he’s gonna be sticking around and hunting with us, y’know,” Dean tried to say as casually as he could, but his words were lodged in his throat as he watched Castiel stare at the keys, speechless. “Gonna have to teach him how to drive, obviously, but.”

“Dude, you never even let me near the front seat of the Impala until I’d been driving Dad’s truck for a whole year!”

“Well, you can never be too careful.” Sam huffed and took another swig of his beer. “So, what d’you think, Cas? Up for a little drive around tomorrow?”

“I love it, Dean.”

Dean swallowed and tried to brush it aside with, “Yeah, well, it’s a useful skill for you to have, ‘specially if both,” he waved towards himself and Sam, “of us are in trouble, so.”

Castiel fingered the star charm for a few moments before turning in his direction and saying, “A star, Dean? Really?”

Sam snorted, Castiel smiled as the key, back in its box, joined the newspaper in his pocket with it still held in his hand, and Dean said, “I hate you both, I really do.

“Ah, you love us really,” Sam said, continuing to laugh.

“…yeah, who’d have thought,” Dean said after a moment, continuing to glance at Castiel as Sam turned the TV on to crappy Christmas shows, but the reruns of the old specials were ignored in place of the reruns of the words “I love it, Dean”, “I love it, Dean”, “I love it, Dean.”

But it was only later on in the evening, when in the motel corridor, when Dean and Castiel found themselves under a small, tattered sprig of mistletoe, when Castiel started to explain its origins, did Dean finally connect their lips, and finally feel that sense of serenity that Dean linked with dozing off for an afternoon nap to the soothing scent of his mom cooking pie once more.

Authors Notes: …it’s a bit darker than Part 1. But it ends sweetly. And that’s what matters. Also I know the scene in 5x18 when we seen Mary arguing with John on the phone would not have been around November, but it fit Idk. Ps. CONTINUE HAVING A MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY DESTIEL-FILLED YEAR!

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destieladventcalendar2012-blog · 12 years

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Destiel Christmas Present: 18

This piece is brought to you by the ever-wonderful aludi, who also did this and this! Click the Read More to find out what she's given you!

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Destiel Christmas Present: 17

This piece is brought to you by the simply incredible ironandsonic who you might remember from 'Up On The Rooftop (And Other Health Hazards)' (day sixteen, piece two). Click the Read More to find out what she's given you!

Deck The Halls (And Place Your Bets) by ironandsonic

Dean hated Christmas parties. The only good one he had ever gone to was when the lights on the Christmas tree overheated and caught fire. That had ended with half the guests fleeing into the back yard, where they had soon discovered that the swimming pool, while cunningly disguised by a fresh coat of ice and snow, was not solid enough to support a person’s weight. But according to Sam, laughing at other people’s misfortune wasn’t exactly the best way of getting into the holiday spirit, so Dean decided that he hated parties as a rule.

Jess said that he just hadn’t been to the right one yet. Well, Dean thought that was bullshit, but he wasn’t going to tell her that. Cute little blonde she may be, but it hadn’t taken Dean long to find out that she had a mean right hook to go along with that cutting mind. And once she got a hold of an idea, she was not going to let it go until she succeeded or the world was ashes.

Take, for example, this party. It was the last one that Sam and Dean would have while living in the same apartment; now that he and Jess were happily engaged, he’d be moving into a new place with her sometime in January. That also meant that it was possibly the last time Dean would ever be obligated to participate in this crap, and so Jess had made it her job to create the most ridiculous, over-the-top Christmas celebration that mortal minds could possibly conceive.

She had been bustling around Sam and Dean’s apartment for the past week putting up decorations, and even worse she had managed to rope Sam into it. Typical. The two nerdy lovebirds had probably written a equations for the exact ratio of tinsel to be wrapped around every surface. They had a wreath on the outside and the inside of the door, for Christ’s sakes. Dean couldn’t even put his foot down without stepping on a Christmas ornament.

“Seriously dude, I think I might be having a stroke,” Dean grumbled as Sam finished plugging in the last of the flashing Christmas lights. Jess stood back to admire their work, her hands on her hips.

“Looks great, babe,” she said, standing on her toes to kiss Sam’s cheek as he slid his arm around her waist.

“Could you not do that in front of me?” Dean groused. “Freakin’ lovebirds.”

“You’re so immature,” Sam said with a grin. “Hey, you never know. If you loosen up on that Scrooge impression you’ve got going on, maybe you’ll find a lovebird of your own.”

“Especially with who’s coming,” Jess said, her smile turning more wicked. Dean was immediately suspicious.

“What? Who’s coming?” he demanded. Sam just laughed.

“Can we tell him?” he asked, his eyes bright.

Jess just shook her head, still grinning evilly at Dean. “Trust me, it will be worth the wait.”

“Whatever. I don’t care.” Dean leaned back on the couch and crossed his arms over his chest.

“Awww,” Jess cooed. “Your brother is so adorable when he’s sulking.” Dean threw a pillow at her.

---

The next day, Dean was maneuvering his way around the piles of wrapping paper which kept mysteriously appearing on the floor when Sam intercepted him in the living room.

“So,” he said, leaning on the back of the couch. “First time living alone. You excited?”

“Sammy, I am freakin’ thrilled,” Dean said with a grin, plopping down into the armchair and groping for the remote. To be honest, he wasn’t nearly as excited as he may have been leading Sam and Jess to believe, but he wasn’t about to ruin their big step with his own stupid feelings. “My first act as supreme ruler of the apartment will be to abolish pants and any food with leaves in it.”

“You are actually a six-year-old,” Sam said, rolling his eyes as he sat down on the couch and propped his feet on the table. He was quiet for a minute as Dean flipped through the channels, snatches of Christmas specials and cooking snows whisking by like billboards through the window of a train.

“Actually, Dean,” Sam began at last. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“What, about me being a glorified toddler? Sorry Sam, my immaturity is here to stay.”

“No, I mean about you living alone. Or more accurately, about you getting a roommate.”

Dean shifted his gaze from the television to his brother, raising an eyebrow in askance.

“Maybe you should at least think about it,” Sam suggested.

“Hang on,” Dean said, raising a finger. “Let me see: doing whatever I want, whenever I want; or, being stuck with some weirdo who washes his socks in the sink or organizes the fridge magnets by color. There, I thought about it. I’ve decided it’s a bad idea.”

Sam shrugged, a coy smile playing across his lips “That’s convenient.”

If there was one thing that grated on Dean’s nerves, it was Sam being passive aggressive. He narrowed his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you’d have to sell your soul to Satan in order to actually get a roommate who wasn’t bound to you by blood, so writing off the entire concept is probably a good decision.”

“Woah now,” Dean said, holding his hands up defensively. “I am a freaking joy to live with.”

Sam smiled tiredly. “Dean, you routinely blast Metallica at three o’clock in the morning. And you drink straight from the milk carton. And you always put it back in the fridge even when it’s empty. And even when the milk goes bad, you never throw it out.”

“Wow, I never knew that you were holding back so much milk-related anger,” Dean said drily. “Do we need to stop by our local farmer’s market for relationship counseling?”

“Actually, it doesn’t really bother me,” Sam said, shrugging. “Like I said, you’re my brother. Dealing with each other’s crap is part of the job. But,” he said, raising his eyebrows and looking Dean dead in the eye, “if you had to get anyone else to room with you, you would be screwed.”

Dean met his gaze. “That sounds an awful lot like a challenge, little bro,” he said, not really sure why he was letting himself be drawn into this but at the same time not really caring. Sam held up his massive hands and tilted his head.

“Guess that depends on whether or not you’re accepting it,” he said.

“Why should I?” Dean shot back.

“Well for one, it means I won’t get to mock you for backing down from a bet,” Sam clarified.

“Oho, so we’re betting now,” Dean said with a grin, leaning forward and rubbing his hands together eagerly. “This just got interesting. What’s on the table?”

Sam tapped his fingers against his lips thoughtfully. “Alright, try this on for size,” he said at last. “If you can find a roommate by the end of our Christmas party, I’ll cut my hair.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Seriously?” He’d been trying to get Sam to shave his luscious locks for years. He had fully resigned himself to having Rapunzel as a little brother up until now.

Sam nodded sagely. “Seriously,” he agreed.

Dean thought about it, turning the concept over in his head. It has been a while since Sam and he had done this sort of thing, and they might not get another opportunity for a long time now that Sam was moving out. Not to mention the fact that he could totally find a roommate in like five seconds if he wanted to. “What happens if I can’t?” he asked.

Sam grinned. “Losing confidence already?” he said. “That’s a bad sign.”

“I’m just exploring my options,” Dean snapped, which just made Sam chuckle even more.

“I’ll think of something I’m sure,” he said. “But hey, you shouldn’t have to worry about it, right? Finding a roommate should be totally easy for you.” Honestly, in that moment Dean would have walked on water just to wipe the stupid smirk off of Sam’s stupid face.

“Yeah, it will be,” he said, leaning forward to shake his brother’s hand. “You might want to invest in some fashionable scarves. Because once all that hair is gone, your neck is going to be cold.”

“That was possibly the least intimidating threat I have ever heard,” Sam replied seriously.

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Destiel Christmas Present: 16

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Destiel Christmas Present: 15

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The Mistletoe by weareunderthesameskies

The Mistletoe

North Dakota, Devils Lake

”Found it.”

Dean looked up from John’s journal.

“What?”

“It’s some sort of water demon, it’s mentioned here. It’s an Old Indian legend, two tribes had been fighting over family grounds and then a witch-man summoned it to make the fighting stop.” Sam tapped on the screen and looked at Dean. “Water boils is in presence.”

“Explains the sudden melt down on the lake. Say ho-“

“How to kill it? No.”

“Awesome,” Dean said and took a chug from his beer and leaned back in the sofa.

It was December and the team had been hunting the damn thing for a few days now, and hadn’t gotten lucky. People had drowned in the huge lake, by mysteriously dropping into melted holes. Their main clue was a witness who had seen her friend being grabbed by the ankle and pulled into the icy water. So far, this was the most information they’d be able to dig up on the monster. Dean nudged to the angel next to him.

“Hey Cas, any ideas?”

Castiel was sitting in the motel room with the two boys, watching TV. Running at the moment was a sappy British Christmas movie where a couple had found a mistletoe and was started kissing. Dean found it funny that Cas had found an interest in television but he was also a bit worried about what he might find. Then again, it wasn’t his responsibility what Cas watched, but he felt a bit protective of the angel.

“Dean, I do not understand, is the mistletoe hexed? Their connection seems… forced.”

Dean chuckled.

“No, it’s just a stupid tradition that people have. It’s basically an excuse to kiss someone.”

“Oh.”

“Wanna help us with the demon or you going to watch A Christmas Story?”

Cas stared at the screen for a few seconds before he stood up and walked over to Sam and looked at his computer screen. He observed a picture of the demon; a large monster with short legs and chubby neck.

“It’s Átahsaia. You need to keep her out of the water and kill it with fire.”

“Well then,” Dean said and closed the journal. Cas turned to look at him. “Ever tried ice-fishing?”

Two years later

Pennsylvania, Lewisberg

The bar was incredible crowded. Apparently the Tavern Shanty was a popular place for the inhabitants of Lewisberg at Christmas. Dean, Castiel and Sam were sitting together at a small table in the far corner. The room was incredibly warm with all the people packing the place and a fireplace right next to where they were sitting.

“C’mon Cas, why not?”

“Dean, consuming large amounts of egg nog won’t set my mind to a ‘Christmas Mood’.”

“Dean, why are we here?”

“Aaaw guys, it’s Christmas! We’ve killed the shifter, we deserve a night off.”

Sam and Cas exchanged glances while Dean cracked grin and drank the rest of the egg nog. He made a grimace after swallowing the last.

“Eugh… next year I’m going stick to drinking whiskey.”

But eventually he persuaded them to drink with him, “For Christmas, man!”, and Cas had a pretty hard time communicating with them after that.

“’S just, I feel reelly bad you know? Like, I just, wish our lives were different, you know?”

Sam was half laying across the table, numerous empty glasses and bottles laying around him. Cas, still unaffected by the alcohol, simply nodded in reply. His eyes scanned across the room and found Dean, whom had engaged in a drinking game with a man twice as large as him. A large crowd had gathered around them and was cheering him on as he drank five shots after each other. As he flipped the last one on the table the people around them started clapping and whistling.

The man in front of him had gone vaguely pale and his large beard seemed to be drenched in vodka. He managed to lift a glass, hands shaking, and then proceeded to faint. People started yelling and laughing and shouted Dean’s name (well, fake name) as he fist pounded the air in victory, barely being able to stand up.

The noise in the bar was incredibly loud, Cas thought.

He watched as Dean turned around to face a woman, who stood behind him, holding a mistletoe. She was smiling coyly at him. He looked as the crowd started yelling again, urging Dean to kiss her. He hesitated. Suddenly, Dean turned to look at Cas and Sam. Cas, who had been unabashedly staring at him, caught his eye.

Everything went silent. The mass of people around Dean turned mute and Sam’s mumbling ceased.

It was just Dean and Cas, looking at each other.

And then the moment disappeared. Dean drew his attention back to the girl, leaned in and started kissing her. The noise started again, but Castiel kept staring, slightly perplexed over what just happened.

Dean brought his hand to the girl’s cheek and ran it through her hair, leaning her head back and deepening the kiss.

Cas was mesmerized by how gentle he seemed.

“I bet its cause he’s jealous,” Sam proclaimed loudly. “What with you kissing Meg and all.”

Cas didn’t hear Sam. His thoughts wandered a different place.

Two years later again

Michigan, Jackson

It was Christmas.

Dean wondered where the years had gone. It seemed like yesterday the apocalypse was on them, but really it was years ago. So many things had happened, so many things had changed… But some things were the same as ever.

“Sam, give it back!”

“No!”

“I said, give it back, it’s mine!”

“No, you’ve already had two Dean, this one is mine!”

The brothers were arguing again. Cas watched with a bemused smile.

“That’s not true, I only had one! Cas, tell him.”

Dean and Sam turned to Cas as their judge of this clearly problematic situation. He raised his hands in defense, stepping slightly back. They looked expectantly at him; Dean pleadingly, Sam with a defiant expression.

“In all honestly Dean, you did have two of the cookies.”

Sam snapped his head at Dean and yelled “HA, I told you so!” and stuffed the last cookie in his mouth. Dean gaped at him and then at Cas.

“Oh you’re so gonna pay for that,” he said, trying to keep an annoyed face, but failing horribly.

“Besides Dean, it’s not good to eat so many cholesterols in your condition,” Sam chuckled, hitting Dean’s stomach on his way to the couch.

“You can talk,” he snapped back.

“Actually Dean-“

“Shut up Cas.”

The three of them had decorated the Cabin for Christmas. Garlands, tinsel, holly, Christmas stars were hung and strung up throughout the little house. Dean had insisted they needed to celebrate Christmas this year, since it had been so long ago any of them had time to sit down “and be a family”. Although most of the decorations were cheap, and they ate pizza instead of a traditional Christmas dinner, all three of them where happy and content with each other’s company.

They sat in the sofa in front of the fireplace; Sam on the right, Dean in the middle and Cas to the left. After Dean had given up on forcing Cas to eat something, he asked him:

“Cas, tell me about Jesus.”

Castiel and Sam looked surprised at Dean.

“Why?” Cas replied.

“I don’t know man, Christmas is the time he was born right? Normally people just read stories about him, but you’re, I mean, you where there.”

“I supposed…” he said, and trailed off. His eyes looked distant as the angel remembered some of his earliest days. He sat quietly, wondering where to begin. “Firstly, Jesus wasn’t born in December.”

“Oh yeah, Sam mentioned that.”

“And there were four wisemen.”

Dean sat quietly, just looking at Cas. Then he started laughing loudly, clapping him on the back with a loud SMACK.

“You telling me the bible got it all wrong?” he asked. His eyes were crinkling up, a large grin spread across his face.

“Not all of it but… a lot of the details aren’t exactly correct,” Cas said, bemused at Dean’s reaction.

Dean was about to ask Cas something again, when Sam’s phone suddenly started ringing. Dean snapped to attention, waiting. Sam quickly pulled it up, mouthing “Amelia” to Dean and got up to go outside.

“Well, I’m gonna go get some more whiskey. Care to join?” Dean said, getting up too. Cas gave a short nod and followed Dean to the kitchen disk. Dean found two glasses, just in case and turned back to Cas, pouring the amber liquid in one of the crystal glasses. Cas seemed nervous and shuffled awkwardly where he stood.

“Cas, wha-?” Dean asked, his eyes suddenly flickering to the celling.

Oh.

A bright green mistletoe with the small white berries hung just above their heads.

Oh.

“Huh. A mistletoe,” Dean said dumbly.

“Yes, it is.”

“Well.”

They stood there, attempting to avoid each other’s eyes, but ending up looking at the lips instead. Cas’ tongue darted out on his chapped lips to which Dean cleared his throat because it seemed to get quite dry.

Oh fuck it, he thought to himself.

He set the glass on the table next to them again, and regretted deeply not drinking some of it before. Dean desperately willed his pulse to slow down, but his heart would not listen. Before he knew it, their lips were drawn closer and suddenly they were there.

Dean’s plumb, soft lips met Castiel’s chapped, rough and it seemed like a perfect contrast. Dean could swear he heard Cas sigh, and the feeling in his stomach suddenly intensified. He felt so warm and fuzzy and Cas was so close and soft and smelled so nice, like a sweet vanilla. He brought his hand up to caress the angel’s cheek, keeping him still. He lost track of what they were doing.

Dean slid his tongue out to taste Cas rough lips, which induced a soft ‘mhmmm’ from him.

Cas felt so safe with Dean. The man who could was known to kill every monster, but so gently with those he cared about. The thought of this, made Cas’ urge for Dean intensify and suddenly he forced Dean’s lip open with his, desperate to claim more, explore more of Dean.

Dean, although surprised, did not hesitate.

Castiel’s soft and warm tongue met his own and their breath’s mingled, moans and sighs getting louder, both feeling warmer each second. Cas pressed up against Dean, pushing him up against the table, wanting to feel him, holding his hands on his side, on his neck, in his hair. They grasped and pulled each other’s hair, the kiss getting more sloppy and needy until they were both breathing so hard. Dean pulled back with a wet ‘pop’, saliva connecting their mouths. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, while Cas slowly opened his eyes, like he was afraid what to see.

“Well,” Dean said quietly, “that was defiantly worth the wait.”

Cas hummed in agreement and brought their lips back together again.

5 minutes later

“Hey guys, hope you didn- oH MY GOD.”

“Sammy, this isn’t what it looks like!”

“Dean and I are simply executing the mistletoe tradition.”

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Destiel Christmas Present: 14

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Destiel Christmas Present: 13

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Destiel Christmas Present: 12

This piece is brought to you by the much-loved and insanely talented cloudyjenn. Click the Read More to find out what she's given you!

Second Life, First Christmas by cloudyjenn

A/N: I wanted to write this fusion for awhile now and since I’m currently obsessed with the Avengers, I realized it was the perfect time. I took elements of Avengers’ various canons and twisted them to suit my needs, so try not to read it as an exact copy. I hope you like it and Merry Christmas!

Dean loved Christmas.

He could give a shit about the beliefs behind the whole thing, but he loved parties, decadent food and spending thousands of dollars on expensive gifts. In point of fact, Dean loved doing that stuff all year long, but no one judged him for doing it around Christmas time. Winchester Christmas parties had grown quite the reputation since Dean took over the company and started doing exactly what he wanted to do. Guests usually left with bags full of pricey jewelry or electronics, bottles of fine wines and a dazed look on their faces.

This year would have to top them all because it was the Captain’s first Christmas in the new century.

“I’m just saying,” Dean said as he dictated to Anna what he wanted for the party, “the last time he saw Christmas, it was 1944; he was in Europe during a war and it was probably depressing as fuck. So we need to lighten the mood.”

“So you think…” Anna consulted her list to read, “Sexy elf strippers would best accomplish that?”

“What, you think they had strippers when they were fighting the Nazis?” Dean said challengingly.

“Well, probably not ones dressed like elves,” Anna said, making a note on her list to apologize to the Captain later for the coming travesty.

“I mean, I know he likes simple stuff,” Dean said. He paced from one end of his lab to the other, the arc reactor under his shirt easily visible through the simple white shirt he wore. The striped plaid shirt and brown leather jacket he’d use to cover the effect lay discarded nearby. In his domain, this lab where he’d invented most of Winchester Industries biggest money makers, Dean didn’t have to hide.

“I’m not suggesting we invite half the city and pour champagne on people and get the cops called on us-“

“You mean like last year?” Anna interrupted.

“I want a classy shindig, a really elegant kinda y’know old-fashioned dance thing that Cap would like,” Dean explained as though Anna hadn’t spoken, waving his hands in a fashion he seemed to believe indicated elegance and simplicity.

“Alright. I’ll see about finding a way to make elf strippers classy, sir,” Anna deadpanned.

“Get out of here,” Dean ordered.

He was pretty sure the only reason Anna obeyed him was because she wanted to leave anyway.

**************

“Captain! Captain, may I have a word with you?”

Castiel paused in his journey towards the exercise room to turn and wait for Samandriel to jog up by his side.

“Of course. Is something wrong?”

“Not exactly wrong, but I was confused by the appearance of a large fir tree in the entrance hall of the mansion. Before I came to speak with you, members of the Winchester staff were placing colored balls on it. Is this a mourning ritual? Has someone died?”

A smile threatened Castiel’s lips, but didn’t quite appear. “Actually, the opposite. It’s a Christmas tree. It’s part of a celebration to commemorate the birth of Jesus Christ, who is the central figure of one of Earth’s major religions.”

“Was he born under the tree?”

“No, it’s…” Really quite complicated, now that Castiel thought about it. “It might be easier if we found you a book about it.”

Samandriel looked relieved. “Thank you, Captain. We have a great deal of feast days and celebrations on Asgard; I understand how important they are. I don’t want to cause offense to anyone.”

Castiel doubted Samandriel would manage to offend anyone living in the mansion. Even if they did take offense, none of them would say anything. Samandriel looked small, but he could wield a hammer that very nearly defeated the strength of Castiel’s shield during their initial misunderstanding.

“I’m sure you’ll be fine. Come on, I’ll show you the library Sam showed me a few weeks ago. It has a computer too,” Castiel added. It’d been four months since he’d awoken from a decades-long sleep to find himself in a bright, noisy and impossible future, but he still couldn’t get over those computers. When he painstakingly typed out an email to SHIELD headquarters, Castiel could only think that his entire past would be so different if he could have sent an instant message halfway around the world when Balthazar had gone missing.

“I enjoy the computer,” Samandriel confided. “It’s not practical, but Dean created an account for me for twitters and so I can see what my beloved Ruby is doing during her day.”

Castiel frowned. He wasn’t sure what twitters meant. Dean had tried to show Castiel so much in recent weeks that most of it blurred together.

“I only do email myself. I’m still learning.”

“Oh, is the computer something they did not have during your times?”

“No, they didn’t.”

“But they had Christmas trees?”

A memory surfaced of a cold Christmas Eve in Brooklyn, a flimsy tree with a few paltry gifts under it, Balthazar huddled with him under a blanket as they talked about what they’d want for Christmas if they were rich. His lips twitched a faint smile.

“Yes, Christmas is a very old holiday.”

Castiel led them into the library, Samandriel making a beeline for the bank of computers lined along one wall. While he punched the keys with his pointer fingers and found articles to read, Castiel browsed the physical books, preferring the familiarity of paper under his hands. He still had so much to learn. If he thought of it as ‘catching up’, Castiel felt tremendously overwhelmed. Instead, he forced himself to categorize it as learning history. There was plenty of history from before 1945 that he hadn’t known at the time either. Reading a book about the politics of the 1960s was not much different than reading about the English Reformation when you got right down to it.

He’d been settled in with a volume about the films of Alfred Hitchcock for about half an hour when Samandriel made a distressed noise in the back of his throat.

“Something wrong?”

“Midgardians exchange presents during Christmas. Is there still time to find gifts?” he asked, eyes wide.

“It’s only the 19th and Christmas is the 25th, so yes. But you know, not everyone celebrates Christmas. You’re not from here or a member of that religion, so you’d probably be safe not to participate.”

Samandriel cocked his head, considering this statement. “Then Christmas is not important?”

“Well, it’s just not required, but people like it. It’s…festive, I suppose is the word,” Castiel said. He understood why Samandriel felt comfortable asking Castiel these questions; they were both a fish out of water, after all. He just felt that someone more in touch with culture would be a better choice, like Dean. “It’s something people do with their families. Even if you don’t really believe in the religious aspects,” as he expected Dean did not, “It’s a time to focus on loved ones.”

“I see,” Samandriel said quietly, eyes now dark with that complicated sadness Castiel had learned to associate with Samandriel’s troubled brother. He lifted them to contemplate Castiel. “And if it is not possible to be with your family?”

Castiel broke eye contact quickly, glancing away to look at a shelf of books, but instead seeing gray muck, fallen bodies and the flash of gunfire. When he’d been so far from home last year, he’d thought nothing could compare to the aching longing to be back in the warmth of his family and friends.

And then he’d been revived to discover they were long gone and forgotten by this world.

“I don’t know.”

*************

“I really hate this guy,” Dean confided to Sam.

Sam responded by picking Dean up in his massive green hands, the Iron Man suit’s weight not fazing Sam while in Hulk mode, and flinging his brother head first at their enemy.

“Thanks!” Dean shouted back, sarcasm translating even through the clicking monotone of Iron Man’s voice. As he zoomed toward the towering possessed robot built by The Leviathan, Dean thought about his Christmas gift for Castiel. The Captain already had all the little gadgets and gizmos every 21st person needed, provided for him personally by Winchester Industries. He had clothes, a car and motorcycle and a roof over his head. Dean had already gotten him all that stupid shit.

“Iron Man!” Dean glanced down to see a blur of blue and red that indicated Captain America had arrived at the base of the robot. He wished Cas would let Dean be near the feet. Super soldier or not, he could still be crushed. But Cas insisted that Dean knew the updated exorcism spells better than Cas and his flying capabilities would make it easier to say them while avoiding the hands.

Dean thought Cas just said that so he could get out of being thrown by the Hulk.“

Yeah, yeah,” Dean shouted back down. “I’m ready.”

The Latin spilled past his lips without much thought on Dean’s part as he dodged the robot’s flailing hands, repulsors working overtime. Maybe Cap would like something personal, like a nice gold watch. Or he could get Castiel one of those full day packages at an exclusive spa.

Right, because that’s exactly what a hardened World War II vet would like. To be scrubbed down with essential oils while pansy ass music played in the background.

Jesus, shopping for Captain America was hard.

Once the spell finished, a massive wave of black smoke exploded out the mouth of the robot and down below him, Cas began smashing the shit out of the newly vacated and now fairly useless machine. A second later, Samandriel swooped in with his hammer, soon followed by Hulk and Jo. Dean had no idea where Victor was. Probably on a roof somewhere searching for any hint of Dick Roman aka The Leviathan.

Between the four of them, the rest of the team dragged the robot down to smash its power center before Dean even landed.

“Good job, guys,” Dean said. A beat later, Castiel added, “Yes, an adequate performance.”

Though no one could see it, Dean was grinning behind his mask. Growing up worshiping the hero of America, the very definition of commanding leadership who’d actually earned unreserved praise from his father, hadn’t prepared Dean for learning how fucking awkward Castiel Novak could be.

“Gee, thanks,” Jo snarked as she stuck her small gun somewhere out of sight and really, someday Dean was going to figure out how she hid anything in that skintight black jumpsuit. “Is that the last one?”

“For now,” Castiel said grimly.

“Right! Then it’s time for pie,” Dean announced. He opened the small storage compartment he’d built into the suit’s abdomen region to withdraw the satchel containing Sam’s pants and shirt. His brother hated morphing back down to his smaller self with nothing to wear. “Here, big guy.” Dean never called Sam by name when he was the Hulk because Sam hated that too. He hadn’t yet come close to accepting that angry destructive side of himself. “Meet us back at the Tower.”

Jo had disappeared when Dean wasn’t paying attention and Samandriel elected to fly back to the Tower, leaving Dean alone with Cas. He opened his face mask and gave Cas a shit-eating grin. “You wanna ride?”

The first time Dean had said those words to Castiel, a very interesting flush arose on his pale cheeks. Dean attributed it to the 40s attitude, but he couldn’t be sure and he couldn’t really stop trying to see it happen again.

To his disappointment, Castiel only lifted an eyebrow at him before stepping up onto Iron Man’s foot and wrapping an arm around his waist. Dean lifted them slowly so Castiel could hear him talk over the wind in their face.

“So if a guy with let’s say, limitless funds and pretty much no moral objection to anything wanted to buy you a Christmas present, what would you tell him to get?”

“You don’t have to buy me a Christmas gift, Dean,” Castiel assured him. “I already received an invitation to your party. That is enough.”

“No, it’s not,” Dean disagreed. “Look, I was the first one to think this whole team thing was stupid-“

“You still think it’s stupid,” Castiel interjected, his voice close and warmed with a hint of affection that Dean liked more than he should.

“No, what I think is that things would run better if everyone did what I said,” Dean corrected. “But the point I’m trying to make is that we’re teammates now and so you’re getting a goddamned Christmas present from me. Now what do you want?”

Castiel remained silent for so long that Dean thought about threatening to drop Cas if he didn’t talk. But eventually an answer came, leaving Dean momentarily speechless.

“A scarf.”

“…excuse me?”

“The mansion is quite cool,” Castiel said. “I don’t like being cold.” And that sentence held a heavier tone that had Dean biting off the mockery he’d almost spewed. Instead, his brain began cranking out plans, starting with tackling the heat problem with Castiel’s rooms. It distracted him so much Dean didn’t even notice they’d stayed quiet the rest of the way back. He only realized when he was setting Castiel’s feet on the ground once more.

“And what do you want?” Castiel asked, almost shyly, his blue eyes even more shockingly vivid against the dark blue of his uniform.

Shy Captain America. Yeah, history had completely gotten the story wrong when it came to this man.

“For Christmas? Don’t worry about it, man. I got more money than God. If I wanted it, I’d have it,” he said.

At least when it came to objects.

“It’s not fair-“

“Dude. Seriously, don’t even bother. Just come to the party and promise me you’ll drink with the rest of us.”

“Very well. But I should warn you; since taking the serum, alcohol doesn’t have an appreciable effect on me,” Castiel said placidly.

Of course not.

“Then you can drink twice as much,” Dean declared. “Awesome. C’mon, pie awaits.”

If Dean happened to walk closer to Captain America than the rest of his teammates, no one commented on it.

***************

Despite what Dean had said, Castiel did end up getting a gift for the man and not just because he felt accepting a gift without giving one was selfish. Castiel honestly wanted to show Dean his appreciation. To say they’d gotten off on the wrong foot didn’t begin to describe the strength of Dean’s visceral dislike of Castiel when they first met. To come from that tense relationship to this odd friendship, even living under the same roof, meant a great deal to Castiel. His stipend from SHIELD along with many years of back pay was sufficient to procure the small wrapped package he hid in the branches of the massive tree in the Winchester’s ball room.

“Castiel, hello,” Anna greeted him warmly, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

Castiel liked Anna Milton. She knew how to talk Dean down when he wanted to charge into situations, guns blazing and a creative variety of curses at the ready. He sometimes found himself wondering if they were romantically involved. Often, actually.

“Merry Christmas. This room looks very nice.”

The giant ground to ceiling tree was one of fourteen trees. The others were smaller, but no less stuffed with decoration, each sporting a large pile of gifts underneath. Streamers, tinsel, baubles, mistletoe, wreaths and every other kind of Christmas decoration imaginable were spread throughout the room in such an aesthetically pleasing manner that Castiel guessed Anna had more to do with the arrangement than Dean.

“Thanks. I had to twist Dean’s arm to get him to let me cancel the Elf strippers.”

Castiel frowned. “That…sounds like it was for the best.”

“Hmmm, yes.”

As more people poured into the ballroom, each one dressed to the nines and bearing even more presents, Castiel allowed himself to be pushed back along the wall. He wasn’t used to this kind of party. His Christmases had always been spent with his father and Balthazar and later, Balthazar’s girlfriend Sarah.

But Castiel did enjoy seeing his teammates letting loose and having fun. Samandriel had obviously picked up the idea of Christmas quickly. He’d shown up with Ruby, his boisterous crew of Asgardian friends and multiple presents for everyone he knew. Sam sat in a quiet corner with his pretty blond-haired girlfriend Jess, intense focus zeroed in on her. Jo and Victor disappeared and reappeared amongst the crowd with typical unusual grace, always sticking close to each other. Castiel knew for a fact that <i>they</i> were romantically involved because he’d accidentally walked in on them at a moment he’d rather have not witnessed.

In the excitement of cheerful greetings, exchange of presents and Christmas music that Castiel soon realized was all recorded prior to 1945, no one seemed to notice that Dean was missing.

“Anna? Where’s Dean?”

“He’s out on the balcony. He told me he wanted some fresh air and that I could casually drop that information to you,” she said with a slight eye roll. “In other words, he wants to give you your present in private.”

Castiel didn’t question the way his stomach fluttered as he went to search for Dean on the balcony Anna mentioned. He found Dean sitting on a stone bench, knee jumping up and down, eyes on the ground.

“Dean?”

“Hey!” He popped up. “What are you doing out here? I mean, hi. I mean, Merry Christmas.” Dean all but covered his mouth with his hand in a visible effort to halt his flow of words. “Jesus.” Then he winced. “Sorry. Fuck me, Cas.”

Heat flashed through Castiel’s body at those words. Cursing and crude language was not new to him, no matter what people in this time period seemed to think. But some phrases still threw him off-guard.

“That’s…not what I think it means, right?”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Shit, no! I mean. No. God, we gotta get you a curse dictionary or something. C’mere. Sit.” Castiel joined Dean as he re-sat on the bench alongside a large box tied up with brown string. The quiet outside offered relief after the loud press of voices and movement inside. “I got you this,” Dean said, picking up the box and placing it in Castiel’s lap.

“Thank you, Dean. It really wasn’t necessary-“

“Shut up and open it.”

Castiel didn’t mind when Dean said things like that because they both knew that Castiel could crush Dean under his thumb.

“Very well.”

The box wasn’t wrapped and the strings loosely tied, so it took only a moment to open it. Castiel stared at the contents for a long moment, his heart giving an odd twist in his chest.

“Is it okay? You said you were cold and I thought you’d be more comfortable in something familiar. If you hate it, that’s okay, we can get you another one. Or you can have something else, that’s fine too-“

“Dean.”

For a man who exuded authority, Dean so easily gave way under Castiel’s soft words. It thrilled a secretive and rarely indulged part of Castiel.

“I love it,” he said, lifting out the dark tan trench coat. The material felt heavy, substantial and warm and the style…there was nothing of the modern about it. None of those mutated versions of styles he remembered, the throw-back designs that felt too different to mean anything to Castiel. This coat was authentically 1940s, a perfect copy of the coats men wore when Castiel had been where he first belonged. “Dean, it’s wonderful.”

“Yeah?” A bright pleased smile Castiel had never before seen transformed Dean’s face. His cares disappeared, making him look younger. “I got Anna to find this costume expert and she made this with your measurements, so it should fit just right and she promised me it was the right time period-“

“It’s perfect,” Castiel confirmed. He stood to shrug into the coat. The cold air crisping the December night immediately retreated from the coat’s warmth. Castiel held out both arms. “How do I look?”

Dean’s gaze trailed from Castiel’s shoulders down to his shoes and he shifted forward, bringing his knees together. “Yeah, it’s…that’s good,” he said in a low growl.

There were things about the 21st century that while not universally accepted were much less restricted than when Castiel had grown up. And those kinds of things, he thought to himself, were often inevitable.

“You’re not romantically involved with Anna, are you?” Castiel asked quietly.

“What? No.” Dean’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. “Why’d you ask?”

Castiel sat beside Dean again, much closer, sharing his newfound warmth. “This is what I wanted for Christmas,” he said instead of answering Dean’s question. “Not the coat, although it’s wonderful.”

“Then what?”

“I wanted to be with loved ones,” Castiel said, leaning hard against Dean’s side.

Dean only let one moment pass before he carefully lifted his arm over Castiel’s shoulders and drew him even closer. “It’s cold out here,” he said, voice thick with something he forced to sound like grumpiness. Castiel wasn’t convinced. “Quit hogging all the body heat.”

“Apologies.”

Castiel listened to the music playing inside the Tower for a short time before speaking again. “I got you a Pie of the Month club membership for Christmas.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“…that might be the greatest present I’ve ever gotten.”

“I thought you might appreciate it.”

For the first time since he woke up, the voices of his former life quieted enough for Castiel to enjoy that moment, that gift of time unburdened by an uncertain future and a too distant past.

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“You too, Cas.”

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destieladventcalendar2012-blog · 12 years

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Destiel Christmas Present: 11

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Destiel Christmas Present: 10

This piece is brought to you by the fabulous garrisonbabe- also known as liquid-thought, also known as the author of All That I Want (day one, piece one). Click the Read More to find out what she's given you!

Red Ribbon Foxes by garrison-babe

Inspired by this song.

December 25th, 1986 – 5:00 am

Dean crept down the stairs, watching out for any signs of grown-ups or anything else that would give him away. He was seven years-old and he was on a Christmas mission: get downstairs to the tree and get Cas one of his presents early so they could celebrate before everyone else woke up. Cas was living with them because his house caught fire. Their father died getting him and his brother Michael out. Their mom had been dead since shortly after Cas was born. Michael was living with their Uncle Gabriel. Dean has pitched a fit because Gabriel lived far away and he thought he was going to lose Cas. Turned out Cas was throwing the same fit, so Gabriel let him stay so long as John and Mary said it was okay. They agreed without hesitation.

Dean slipped across the hardwood in his socks, he was already a pro at sock-skating. He’d teach Sammy when his little brother was old enough. Yesterday he raced Cas up and down the hall while John and Mary wrapped the last of their presents. He was totally okay with admitting that his best friend was a little better at it than him, but only a little.

He approached the tree with care, it was covered in lights and ornaments. Christmas was awesome. The boxes under the tree were stacked carefully, but Dean already knew which one he was looking for. It was wrapped in dark blue paper, kind of messily but hey, Dean was only seven after all. He wrapped his hands around it and pulled it from under the tree, everything else remaining right where it was.

The stairs were a little creaky, but Dean was careful and no one was the wiser by the time he got back to the room he shared with Cas. His blue-eyed friend was in his bed, cuddling one of Dean’s pillows. Dean rolled his eyes and snorted, closing the door as quietly as possible. Cas had his own bed, but he and Dean shared a lot. When they shared Cas didn’t get nightmares and Dean wasn’t as cold, so it was a win/win situation.

He crawled into bed, ambling over Cas really awkwardly. A muffled mrrrhphhlet him know he’d woken the other boy up. Castiel rubbed his eyes and sat up unsteadily, swaying a little from side to side.

“Dean? What are you doing up? It’s still dark.” His voice was still rough from smoke damage, scratchy but definitely the Cas he remembered.

“Got you this.” Dean held the box out and Cas’ eyes widened. He looked between the present and Dean, chewing his chapped lower lip before taking it with a smile.

“Thank you, Dean. You didn’t have to.”

“Yeah, but I wanted to, so I did. It’s from me. Open it, Feather-boy.”

Castiel giggled and tore the paper away from the slender package. When it was completely opened he slammed one hand to his mouth, trying not to hyper-ventilate. He bounced in the bed and tossed the book onto Dean’s pillows, launching himself at his friend to hug him tightly. Dean laughed and hugged him back, trying to breathe through Cas’ excited embrace. Guy was like an ocotopus.

“C’mon OctoCas, I can’t breathe!” He laughed despite his protests and squeezed Cas again before letting him sit up.

Cas picked his gift back up and looked at it in awe. “A book about bees.” There was a wide smile plastered to his face and Dean thought that even if he got in trouble for sneaking a gift early he wouldn’t care. It was worth it to see his best friend smile like that.

—

December 24th, 1996 3:42 pm

Dean sat beside Cas on the park bench, it was snowing heavily and he was freezing but none of that mattered. The roads had been too bad to actually drive the previous week, so it was the first opportunity for them to visit the memorial to Cas’ parents in cemetery. Cas would usually just sit there and stare off into space, but something seemed to be eating at him. The benches were covered in snow, just like everything else. Grave markers were piled up, some completely buried. Off in the distance a stone angel was weeping snowflakes.

Dean looked back to Cas, his friend’s black hair was lightly dusted in snow, his collar too. Occasionally snow would shake off and filter into his shirt, but Cas didn’t move or make any attempt to find cover from the fluffy downpour.

It was almost painfully silent. What could he say? His friend’s parents were dead, Dean didn’t know what that was like. He hoped Cas had been happy with them, his brother was on the other side of the country, but they tried. Dean tried.

Cas looked at him, long ago he’d stopped being depressed when they visited. Anymore he was just glad for the tradition, Dean thought. He didn’t look sad, at least. Dean couldn’t help thinking that if his parents died he’d never stop mourning. Cas always was a bit stronger than him, better than him. That was why after high school Cas would leave. Maybe he’d go and live with his brother and his uncle and go to a big school and be somebody. But he wouldn’t stay in Lawrence. He just wouldn’t.

Or maybe it was all some illusion Dean had created. He had a way of making the best things in his life into the worst. But dammit… he loved him. Yeah, it was stupid, the guy was his best friend since for-fucking-ever and it was Dean’s bed he’d slept in after the fire when they were little and this was his best fucking friend! How could he have been so stupid? Cas didn’t date and even if he did he wouldn’t date Dean. Guy was probably straight. Probably. The thing with Meg was most likely just a bad judgment call and the disgust he’d seen after the kiss was probably just him being drunk and hopeful.

What else can you be when you’re in love with your best friend?

Cas was still just staring at him, but he was used to it. Dean wrapped his hand around the small box in his jacket pocket and pulled it out. It was long and covered in black velvet. He handed it to Cas.

“Probably not the best time, but the house is gonna be a wreck when we make it back.”

Cas tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took the offered gift. Dean was nervous, just like always when giving Cas a gift. It wasn’t like he couldn’t read Cas or didn’t know what to get him, but Christmas always seemed like a big thing and presents were always hard. He watched his best friend open the box, his eyes going wide as saucers while a large, cloudy huff of surprise punched its way from his mouth.

“Dean…” His voice trailed off, blue eyes snapping back to Dean’s face.

Dean smiled sheepishly and laughed. “I uh, I saw you eyeing it at the mall, got it last week.”

Cas pulled the large silver watch out of the jewelry box and slipped it onto his slender wrist. Dean wanted to grab his hand, hold it and admire the watch but that wasn’t the kind of thing someone did with their best friend. Neither was pining, but one out of two wasn’t that bad. His friend caressed the cold metal with careful fingers, ghosting around the glass face.

“It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.” Cas looked back up at him and maybe Dean had a fucking breakdown for a few seconds because he lost all control over himself. Cas’ eyes were glassy, almost like the watch was his most precious possession or something and it slammed into his chest. He always did that, Dean would give him something and he just treasured it like everything Dean did was important. So yeah, Dean lost it for a fraction of a second and leaned forward to kiss his best friend.

It was so stupid but if it was the last thing he ever did with Cas he wouldn’t regret it. His lips were soft and dry, chapped from the winter weather and cold from being beaten by the wind. At some point one of his hands went up to cup Cas’ jaw and the feeling of stubble against his fingers snapped him back to reality.

He stood abruptly and backed away from the bench. “Fuck! Cas, I am so sorry!”

Cas stood and grabbed him by the shoulders, forcing him to stand still in the middle of the icy walkway. Dean looked off in the distance, where the remains of Cas’ dead parents were freezing under the dirt. So, great, not only did he kiss his best friend but he did it while they visited his parents’ grave. Fantastic.

“Dean?” Cas was trying to make eye contact but Dean couldn’t do it.

“I’m sorry, I get it if you want to forget that even happened and if you don’t want to talk ab—“

He was cut off by one of Cas’ hands grabbing his jaw to pull him into another kiss. His fingers were freezing, probably numb and it was a bright shock against the hot breath pouring over his face from Cas’ nose. The shock wore off after a second and Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel desperately, pulling him close enough that the zippers of their coats snagged against each other. Cas started smiling and Dean smiled in return, their lips pulling apart even as their faces stayed pressed close.

“I don’t care if you tell, Dean. I want to tell everyone.”

—

December 25th, 1999 7:28 pm

Dean sat down on the lumpy, tan couch Cas bought when they got their apartment together. Just like he’d predicted at seventeen, Cas was going to a big school and doing things with his life. What he hadn’t predicted was that the guy swore he wouldn’t leave without Dean. So Dean was sitting in a small Seattle apartment, grease from his job at the garage still under his nails while Cas made hot chocolate. He’d gotten off the phone with Sam earlier and promised he and Cas would make it out for New Year’s. Leave it to his little brother to actually convince him to fly. The little bitch.

It was silly now, but for some reason he’d been nervous about everyone finding out about him and Cas when they were in high school. Turned out that was just plain dumb because everyone had been taking bets since the two of them were five as to when they’d start dating. Assholes, all of them.

Cas sat down with him, giant sweater hanging off of his frame. It wasn’t that Cas was a small guy, it was that Dean was bigger and his boyfriend had a penchant for buying Dean sweaters only to steal them a short while later. Dean thought the only reason he got to wear them at all was so they could smell like him. For some reason Cas was crazy enough not to mind the smell of grease, sweat and leather. He took a large mug from Cas and sipped at the scalding liquid inside. The heater was busted. Again. He could practically see his breath when he breathed, but it did have a plus in the fact that OctoCas would make an appearance in bed that night. As much as he’d complain, Dean really did love holding Cas and being held onto.

Earlier in the day they’d gone to various parties with friends and spent almost all day on the phone. They hadn’t had much time to themselves but it was okay, they had every other day with each other. Even when Cas was swamped with projects for school (double major, really?) and Dean was working overtime they still managed. More than once he’d come home to find a note left on the oven door to let him know the library had a pair of blue eyes that were bloodshot and hopped up on black tea. Inside the oven was usually his dinner or a pie. Something homemade because Cas wasn’t actually human, he was actually some angel that took a wrong-turn before getting to the gates of Heaven and crashed landed into Dean’s life.

Truthfully, Dean didn’t see enough good happening to believe in God or angels, but he believed in Cas and Cas believed so that was enough. Cas sipped his drink and smiled warmly to Dean. It was a wide smile that only Dean got and he treasured it jealously. The world could do whatever, throw whatever it wanted their way because at the end of the day it would still be him and his best friend sitting on an old lumpy couch, drinking hot chocolate.

“You look like you’re having an existential crisis, Dean.” Castiel chuckled softly and wrapped himself tighter in the comforter they shared. It was a well-practiced move that put him so close to Dean he was almost in the other man’s lap. Not that Dean would ever complain.

Dean laughed and shook his head, reaching into his pants pocket for Cas’ gift. Money had been tight, but he did his best. “Close your eyes.” Cas squinted, smiling suspiciously before complying. Dean lifted his hand out of his pocket and dropped Cas’ present into his palm. “Okay, open.”

Castiel opened his eyes and gaped at the pile of crystal and silver in his hand. He covered his mouth and stared in awe of the heavy rosary that was draped over his pale skin. After a moment he collected himself enough to straighten it out and examine it more closely.

Cas shook his head and tried to shove it back at Dean. “Dean, this belonged to your grandmother, I could never—“

“You can and you will.” Dean gently closed his fingers around Cas’ hand, forcing him to accept the heirloom. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather give it to. You’ve always loved it and you believe in that stuff more than I do. Please, Cas, I need you to take it.” Need you to know you’re more important than some chunks of rock and metal.

“Dean…” Tears fell from Castiel’s eyes, a smile crinkling the edges as he sniffed roughly. “Okay.” His voice was soft, scratchy like always and reverent. He nodded pulled his hand back to look at what constituted Dean’s most prized possession. “Okay.” He repeated, more finality in his tone than there had been before.

“Good.” Dean watched Cas’ eyes skim over the glinting mass, the blue of them reflecting the light of the room even more brilliantly than the stones in his hand. “I love you, Cas.”

Castiel looked up, shocked. Dean never really said it before. He knew Cas knew but he didn’t make it a point to say it that often. Maybe he should.

“I love you, too, Dean.”

—

December 25th, 2009 6:00 am

Normally Dean didn’t make an effort to get up so early, but he knew Cas would be cooking and that they would be hosting Christmas dinner for the family. Perks and curse of having the largest house. The smell of cinnamon and pumpkin was already heavy in the air. If Cas was making a pumpkin roll Dean might just buy him a damn palace. The store had been out of pumpkin but somehow he doubted that would ever stop a determined Castiel Novak. You just did not get in the way of hurricane Cas.

It was barely light out, snow drifting down slowly. After college they moved back to Lawrence, buying a house with money they’d saved up while Cas worked on his master’s. They never left after that, Cas started teaching high school and Dean owned a few mechanic’s shops around the state. All in all he loved his life.

The bedside table was cast in an angry red glow from his alarm clock, the rosary he gave Cas a decade ago sitting next to it. Somehow Cas was still amazed that Dean gave it to him. He wasn’t sure why, he’d have thought he’d made it clear years before that Cas was the most important thing to him.

Getting out of bed was slow-going. The sheets were warm, Cas’ pillow still smelling like him. After almost falling back asleep he threw the comforter away and forced himself to wake up in the chill of their room. The apartment in Seattle started a trend of leaving the heater off in winter. It wasn’t an excuse to cuddle, it was saving money on the electric bill.

Dean all but jumped the short distance from their bed to the dresser. He slipped into a pair of sweats and long-sleeved undershirt. His feet were freezing, but he just didn’t have the patience for socks. Christmas was hectic and he needed to use the short calm before the oncoming storm Winchester to give Cas his gift.

A small, light blue satin bag sat in his hand and despite the weight of its contents it still felt impossibly weightless. At thirty years old Dean wasn’t sure if he was crazy or idealistic. He only hoped Cas would like it. The bag was slipped into his pocket carefully, his hand patting the area three times before he was convinced it was really there.

Down in the kitchen Cas was indeed making pumpkin roll and there was a pie cooling on the dining table. Dean needed to start looking into large mansions made of diamond for the guy. He did that every year. He made so much food that even Dean’s mom was hard pressed to figure out how. It was all delicious, too. A very small, greedy part of Dean was selfish enough to like that Sam was a bit jealous, despite Jess being pretty skilled in the kitchen as well.

His dark hair was messy, messier than usual because of a light dusting of flour, and he was wearing the apron Dean bought as a joke but secretly adored. White, satiny with fluffy lace trim. Sam was still annoyed that he couldn’t make fun of Cas for it. Dean smirked, he always had a level head when he was made fun of by Sam.

Cas was singing softly, the sound of sizzling food his only companion. He wasn’t sure what the song was, but it was definitely Christmassy if the tune was any indication. “For faith doesn’t come in boxes, nor God in your silver cross, those redribbon foxes are not so easy caught.”

Dean stepped behind him silently, wrapping his arms around his slender waist. Cas startled, hand flying to his chest as he panted heavily. Black hair tickled his nose as he kissed the pale skin behind Cas’ ear.

“Hey, you.” His voice was still a little husky with sleep, the fog of an early Christmas morning probably wouldn’t lift until he had at least one cup of coffee (or tea that he’d never admit to later).

Cas turned around, looping his arms around Dean’s neck. They smiled at each other a little giddily and leaned in for a kiss at the same time. Dean sighed, content with the feel of lips on his first thing in the morning.

One floury hand cupped his jaw, a light handprint probably left behind that Dean would wash off with a goofy smile. Cas broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Dean’s. “I didn’t expect you up so early.”

Dean slipped one hand into his pocket, his heart beat picking up the moment he felt the satin against his fingers. His breathing was hard to control, he wanted nothing more than to panic and wait, but if he did that he’d lose his balls and talk himself out of it. He cleared his throat to try and steady his voice, even without speaking he knew it would shake.

“Wanted to give you your gift early.” He spoke in a near-whisper, that being the only way the nervousness clenching tight in his chest wouldn’t be betrayed.

Taking a short step out of Cas’ arms, he pulled the small pouch free. He licked his lips nervously, eyes flitting all across the man in front of him. When he held it out to Cas his chest only felt more constricted, like the Impala fell on him suddenly and this was only a fever-dream he was having just before he died. He knew Cas could tell he was nervous, he always was with gifts, so he probably didn’t understand just how much panic was pulsing sickly hot through Dean’s skin. Long fingers gracefully plucked the small bit of fabric from his sweaty hands.

A small smile was tugging at the corner of Cas’ mouth and Dean did his best not to freak out any further. If that smile disappeared, he didn’t know what he’d do. The draw string was loosened and the bag upended into Cas’ palm.

A pair of blue eyes snapped to his, wide and frantic as they stared in disbelief. “Dean?” His voice was so small and Dean couldn’t help it when a few stray tears fell down his cheeks.

“I uh, I’ve spent practically my whole damn life with you, was kind of hoping we could just… I don’t know… have something official, I guess?” He could barely hear himself, his mind was numb and buzzing all at once, the tightness in his chest only getting worse as the silent seconds ticked on audibly from the stove’s timer.

Castiel stared at a pair of rings in his palm, one made of silver and the other of rose gold. He picked them up with such care that they may as well have been made of spun-sugar. The inside of the silver band was engraved in cursive with the initials CJN and on the outside of the band a pair of angel wings and a small halo were carved into the surface. The inside of the gold ring was inscribed with the letters DW and the outside was inlayed with a circular star sapphire.

Dean cleared his throat, trying to find the nerve to speak. “The, uh, the silver one’s mine. Has your initials and the wings and halo ‘cause I always use to call you Angel. I know you always liked rose gold best, so I got yours in, uh, rose gold and those are my initials. Obviously. Um, the star sapphire was something your brother gave me when I asked him for permission a few months back. Said it was the only thing left of your mom’s. I uh, I hope you’re okay with—“ Dean was cut off by a suffocating hug and a crushing kiss from the man in front of him.

They were both crying, barely managing to get in a decent kiss before pulling away to take in deep, shuddering breaths. Dean clutched to the man in front of him just as desperately as he had when he was seventeen, unsure and frightened in an old cemetery.

Both of their faces were wet, streaked with tears and lightly flushed. The hand with the rings was in a tight fist behind Dean’s shoulders and Castiel was sobbing into the crook of his neck. They’d talked about it years before, but Dean had always blown it off. He didn’t truly understand until he and Cas went to Sam’s wedding and then Michael’s. Then he understood perfectly and vowed on Cas’ thirtieth that by his next birthday he’d have a ring.

Eventually Cas managed to stop crying and pull back enough to look Dean in the eye. His were bloodshot, the blue standing out against the pink in a way that made them look inhuman. They were always so beautiful. Dean could almost feel the way Cas was searching over him, his reflection in the dark blue a physical weight against his skin.

A wide smile broke Cas’ normally calm features. Tears were already springing up again, despite the five minutes he spent soaking Dean’s shirt. He sniffed hard, a horribly undignified sound that made Dean grin even wider in return.

“Of course, Dean.” If Dean hadn’t felt the pounding of his blood in his veins he could have sworn he’d had a heart-attack the moment Castiel spoke.

They slipped the rings on, the pink band fitting snuggly at the base of Cas’ left ring finger, bright and impossible to miss. The silver shining against Dean’s tan skin was surreal, almost foggy in his vision, like it might disappear at a moment’s notice. Where before his chest had felt constricted it was now light and airy, a very tangible warmth spreading through him.

Dean cupped Cas’ jaw with his left hand, already loving the way he could feel the silver warm with the touch. He kissed Cas on the forehead, breathing deeply as his nose was buried in messy, floury hair. Everything was perfect.

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